


Black and White

by the_haven_of_fiction



Category: Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Break Up, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 16:29:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7852591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_haven_of_fiction/pseuds/the_haven_of_fiction
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>OFC and Actor Tom have to deal with the consquences of a major decision he makes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black and White

He remembered the first time he had seen her cry.  

It wasn’t like this. It wasn’t like this, this intense sensation of fire around his heart, the vision of her slowly crumbling in front of him.  Then it had been sweet, endearing.  She tried to hide it at first, making a valiant effort to be strong, keeping her eyes on the screen as Tom Hanks sat across from Emma Thompson and his low comforting voice persuaded her.  He thought perhaps it was best to pretend that he wasn’t aware of the silent tears slipping down her cheeks, not wanting to add to any embarrassment she might be feeling.  But after a minute or so, she gave a little sigh of defeat, whispered “Oh, who cares…” almost absent-mindedly, simply reaching over and taking his arm, wiping away the wetness with his sleeve.  

_“If you’ve been waiting for an opportune moment to make your move, this would be it, cowboy.”_

They had laughed together, he remembered that, too, as he put his arms around her and held her close for the first time, those thrilling bolts shooting through him when she snuggled against the soft blue cotton of his shirt and sighed again.

But she wasn’t laughing this time and neither was he.  He’d never laugh with her again.  Not now. He’d ruined it.  He’d made a royal mess of something that was so –

“Get out.  Take everything.  I don’t want any of it.”

Her startlingly calm commands broke his self-pitying internal dialogue and brought him painfully back into the present.  She’d gotten a box from somewhere and was moving quickly around her flat, picking up the book he’d left last week and anything that was a gift from him: the throw pillow with her favorite Jane Austen quote, the cookbook that already had vanilla stains on the cover, even the garishly colored stuffed mice he’d bought for Mr.Bennett in the effort to win over the grouchy old feline.  

“Please,” his voice was shaking a little, “don’t do this.  Keep them.  I –“

The russet curls bounced with force as she whirled around to face him.

“You don’t get to make any requests of me, Tom.  None. You have no right.”

There was so much pain in her voice, it was a voice he’d not heard previously.  But he’d never seen her with a shattered heart, so he had no one to blame but himself.

He had to stand there, helpless, and watch her, watch her erase his existence from her home.  He knew she was doing it in the hope that such an effort would also erase him from her heart and that cut him to the core. Again, no one to blame but himself.

The slightest tremor of hope leapt inside him when she picked up the silver frame containing a photo of them with her nephew, when he had persuaded her that meeting her family would be safe.  It had only been a month since their first date and her cautious nature had been overwhelmed by the sincerity of those big blue eyes and the assurance in his sunrise of a smile.

“At least Trevor is young enough that he won’t have any memory of you.”

The hope died.

“Do you want the latest bouquet or shall I just toss the flowers in the rubbish bin the way you are throwing us away?”

He didn’t want this to ever happen again.  He told himself after the last time that it would be the last time.  Yet here he was, again.  Destroying, again.  Was it different?  Did the reason matter?  He knew it did, he knew he was a coward this time, and that seemed the worst kind of selfishness.  

She didn’t wait for him to answer, instead grabbing the arrangement of pale blue hydrangeas and white roses.  They made a muted _thwack_ as they fell on top of the other items, the collective symbolic body of their relationship that was being entombed in that coffin of a box.  

“Please,” he implored again, “the stems are wet, they’ll ruin the pillow, and I want you to keep that, it –“

She interrupted him, again, almost as if she wasn’t aware that he had spoken at all.

“We had a dinner date with Alistair and Jen planned for tomorrow, but you probably forgot about that, as usual.”

Another _plunk_ as a package of his favorite biscuits was dropped on top of the blooms.  She always made sure she had some on hand, always wanted him to feel at home whenever he was in her presence.  That was over.  She’d probably avoid that section at Tesco’s for months.

“If you can manage to do one thing for me, give them a ring and offer whatever excuse you want, it doesn’t matter what it is.  It’s the fourth time we’ve had to call it off, the first that I haven’t been stuck explaining, so be your usual charming actor self and apologize as many times as necessary.”

Every word from her mouth increased his self-loathing.  So why did he not want to leave this place, this flat with its prints of Degas and Matisse on the walls, the stacks of dog-eared books and old magazines, the constant whirring of her air filter, the sweet spicy scent of her favorite cinnamon and peaches candle, the big black and white striped couch that seemed to put a spell on him whenever he sat on it.  How many times had he come to this refuge and fallen asleep on its fluffy pillows, only to be awakened by the sound of her humming and the tinkling of dishes in the kitchen as she made him dinner.

He didn’t want to leave because this place was peaceful.  She was peaceful.  Even her in current state of rage she was somehow peaceful.  There was no yelling, no screaming, no throwing of mementos against walls.  His life seemed to take on a soft filter lens effect since she’d entered the frame.  

“Their number is in your phone, I added it weeks ago during one of your naps on my couch when we were supposed to be putting together that toy for Trevor.”

The tone was evidence that such a repeated action on his part was now being perceived as something negative, something that hurt her in a way that hadn’t before.

Now he wanted to scream. He wanted to tell her that it wasn’t an insult.  He wanted to tell her how safe he felt here, how he’d never let himself be so unguarded with anyone else.  That it was the reason.  It was different this time.  And he was scared.  

She was standing in front of him, thrusting the box at him, face still damp although the tears had ceased. He blinked a few times.  And again.  But it didn’t help.  It didn’t change the image.  It didn’t wake him from a bad dream.

“Take it.”

Fear.

It was paralyzing him.

Fear had driven him to this and he hadn’t considered the entirely different type of fear that was the result.

Fear of leaving her.

“Take it,” she repeated, her voice still seeming somehow calm.

“You’ve just committed a murder, Tom.  With intent. And you have to dispose of the remains.”

A murder.

Yes, that’s what it was.

“But you’re the worst kind of murderer.  Because there’s been a death, but your victim is still breathing.  Maybe not living for a while, but breathing.”

Her hands were trembling now and he knew if he didn’t react, she’d drop the box.

“You know what they say about cycles of abuse?”

The cardboard was cold in hands, as cold as her fingers that brushed against his.  Cold.  So cold.

“I’m going to live through this, Tom, but you – you will keep doing this.  You are your own worst enemy.  I hope you find a way to rehabilitate yourself before you cause another death.”

She was right.  He knew it.  

He still didn’t want to leave.

A murderer.  He was a murderer.

Mercy.

He wanted to ask her for mercy.

He wanted to revive what he killed.

For her sake.

The expression on her face changed and he realized that he was crying.  The softness and compassion he so loved flashed in her eyes.  There was also something else.  Something new.  What was it?

She slowly reached up and wiped his tears with her sleeve, tilted his head down and kissed the tip of his nose.  The silky skin of her palms pressed against the scruff on his cheeks and he gulped down a sob as her hands fell away and she took a step back from him, the distance of a few feet feeling more like miles.  It occurred to him that the brief contact was probably the last time that she would ever touch him.  And he knew what it was.

Pity.

It was pity.

There was pity in her eyes.

She had to literally make him turn around and leave, her hands on his shoulders as she marched him down the short hallway to the front door.  Then her hands fell and she said “Wait.”

The hope swelled anew.

Wait?

He was paralyzed again, waiting, as she had commanded.

The padding of her sock feet on the wood floor was fading and she hurried back into the living room. He’d worked up the courage to turn around as she re-entered the hall.  Maybe it could be revived.  Maybe he could work through this.  Maybe she would be merciful.  Maybe she would forgive him.

She held out her hand.

His glasses.

The spare ones he kept here.

“Don’t forget these.”

The hope died.

“I’m sorry.”

He cringed at the words coming from his own mouth, hating how inadequate and trite they sounded, like a meaningless cliché offered after bumping into a stranger on the train.  

A slow and thoughtful nod was her response.

“I know you are.  But not enough.  One day it will be enough.  One day it will be enough to keep you from…from…”

Her voice trailed off and he knew what she thinking without her having to say it.

_From killing again._

It was the last time he saw her cry.  


End file.
